


At The Center of It All

by wutheringjane



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wutheringjane/pseuds/wutheringjane
Summary: One of the Russian players was kicking a wall.Nicke’s family called him shy. Nicke thought of himself as reserved. He had no idea what made him step forward, and speak in hesitant English.“You should stop, before you hurt yourself.”The boy turned, and – oh. It was Alex Ovechkin.





	At The Center of It All

_2006, Riga_

 

Nicke had always hated ties, even more than he hated losing. Losing, at least, was definitive; the better team of the game was inarguably decided. Ties, on the other hand, felt taut and unfinished. He always had trouble leaving the ice behind after a tie game.

 

It was worse today. This was his first international tournament. Nicke was the youngest member of the team. Some days, his back ached with the weight of all that he was trying to prove.

 

He quickly stripped out of his gear, stopping once he was in his shell. Several of his teammates were already heading for the showers. Nicke’s skin was crawling. He needed to move, not stand under hot water and ruminate on the fact that he only had one shot on goal during the entire game.

 

Nicke slipped out of the locker room, pacing quickly around the back hallways of the Skonto Arena. He didn’t have a particular destination, and he quickly found himself in a quiet back hallway that looked like it was mostly for storage.

 

That was when he heard the sound. Like someone was knocking insistently on a door.

 

Curious, Nicke walked forward. He peeked around a hallway corner.

 

One of the Russian players was kicking a wall.

 

The boy had clearly already showered and was dressed in his Team Russia tracksuit. He was muttering to himself in low tones, repeatedly ramming his left foot into the stone.

 

Nicke’s family called him shy. Nicke thought of himself as reserved. He had no idea what made him step forward, and speak in hesitant English.

 

“You should stop, before you hurt yourself.”

 

The boy turned, and – oh. It was Alex Ovechkin.

 

They had never met, but Nicke recognized him instantly. The only hockey player in the world talked about more than Ovechkin was Sidney Crosby, and Nicke preferred to watch Ovi’s play. Crosby was a center, like Nicke, read the ice like him – it was predictable, and a little boring. Ovechkin was so different. Fast, lithe, unstoppable at putting points on the board – Nicke had streamed Washington Capitals’ games in the middle of the night last season, just to watch Ovechkin score.

 

The same Ovechkin who was now looking at him, brow furrowed, face flushed with anger.

 

Nicke swallowed.

 

“Just – you play again in three days. You don’t want to hurt your foot.”

 

Ovechkin still hadn’t responded, although he had stopped kicking the wall and had turned to face Nicke. What if he didn’t speak English? Nicke felt unconscionably rude for his assumption.

 

Then Ovechkin spoke. “Thank you. But. I hate – I hate to tie.” He frowned, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

 

Nicke took a step closer. “So do I.”

 

Ovechkin huffed out a laugh. He walked up to Nicke. He was only a little taller than Nicke, but it felt like more than a few inches. Nicke tried to tuck his hands into his sleeves before belatedly realizing he was still just in his shell. He never knew what to do with his hands.

 

“You play good.” Ovechkin looked at him earnestly. “Backstrom, yes? Do well, for so young.”

 

Nicke felt himself color. “I do well regardless of my age,” he responded indignantly.

 

Ovechkin laughed brightly, his face transformed from its angry set from a few moments before.

 

“Yes,” he said agreeably, leaning comfortably against the hallway wall. “You do.”

 

“You are also playing well,” Nicke said, embarrassed. “That was a nice goal.” It hurt him a bit to say it – Ovechkin had scored a minute into the game, an embarrassment to Sweden – but he had to admit that the goal had been good.

 

“Thank you,” Ovechkin said, with an ironic bow. Nicke didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated.

 

Before he could respond, a spout of Russian came from behind him. Nicke turned to see Evgeni Malkin, also in a Team Russia tracksuit, frowning at Ovechkin. Nicke might not speak the language, but it was clear that Malkin was telling him to hurry up.

 

Ovechkin shot Nicke an apologetic glance. “Sorry for him. He just mad because he miss Crosby.”

 

Malkin started to sputter, glaring at Nicke now. Nicke thought he understood. If he played as well together as Malkin and Crosby did – if he was set up to be a franchise duo, the way they were – he would probably miss his teammate too.

 

“Come, Zhenya,” Ovechkin said, grabbing Malkin’s arm and walking down the hallway with him, Malkin hissing at him in Russian.

 

Ovechkin turned around. “Goodbye, Backstrom.”

 

“Goodbye,” Nicke said. He waited another five minutes before he returned to the locker room.

 

 

\--

 

 

Sweden was playing the United States in the quarterfinals. Nicke would be starting on a line with Henrik Zetterberg and Johan Franzen. _Zetterberg_ and _Franzen_.

 

There were so many things Nicke could be panicking about that he decided he couldn’t possibly worry about them all, so instead, Nicke thought about Ovechkin.

 

He wasn’t sure why, but thinking about Ovechkin calmed him. The night before the quarter-final, he couldn’t sleep, and he actually found himself plugging his Ethernet cord into the hotel wall so that he could watch highlight videos from Ovechkin’s rookie season with the Capitals.

 

It wasn’t weird, Nicke decided firmly. Not that he would be telling anyone about his sudden devotion to the Russian, but it didn’t have to be weird.

 

On the 17th, they decimated the U.S. 6-0. Nicke had two shots on goal, which – he could have done better, but still. 6-0. The locker room thrummed with energy after the game. Zetterberg stepped up.

 

“This is the kind of win this team can achieve,” he said. The locker room quieted. “This is our tournament. This is our year.” He stepped back. Hornqvist let out a whoop and suddenly the room was full of cheers. Nicke smiled.

 

 

Later that night, after team dinner, and drinks that ended early – they only had one day until the semi-final – Nicke was back in the hotel room he shared with Hornqvist, idly watching TV while he waited for the bathroom.

 

There was a knock at the door. Nicke got up. One of their teammates, he figured, too drunk or still wired from the win.

 

He opened the door to Alex Ovechkin, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, baring his teeth in a grin.

 

“Backstrom!” he said cheerfully, rocking back and forth on his heels.

 

Nicke looked at him hesitantly. “Ovechkin,” he said.

 

“Please, please, call me Alex. Sasha. Or Sanja! Not picky,” Ovechkin said.

 

“Then call me Nicklas. Or – Nicke,” Nicke responded. It seemed the polite thing to do.

 

“Nicky!” Ovi exclaimed. His grin was verging on manic. “You want go do something with me? Walk by river?”

 

It took Nicke several seconds before he realized. Ovechkin – Sasha – was nervous.

 

Nicke felt a wave of fondness sweep over him. In front of him, Ovechkin was still bouncing like an overexcited puppy.

 

“Let me get my jacket,” he said. Sasha grinned.

 

Nicke grabbed his jacket. Horny raised his eyebrows at him, but Nicke studiously ignored his gaze and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

 

They walked to the elevators, shoulders brushing. Nicke idly thought that he wouldn’t much like to be hit by Sasha in a game.

 

“Favorite color?” said Sasha.

 

“Excuse m – what?” asked Nicke.

 

“What you favorite color?” repeated Sasha. He was smiling again.

 

“Um. Red. Red is my favorite color.”

 

“Like Capitals. My team!” Sasha bounded into the elevator in front of Nicke. Nicke followed.

 

“Yes, the Capitals. Do I remember right, that they set the record for most losses in one season in NHL history?”

 

For a second, Nicke thought he had hurt Sasha’s feelings. He sometimes wasn’t sure how to chirp without being too harsh. But Sasha just laughed, and threw an arm around Nicke’s shoulders.

 

“Yes, true. But now we gonna win! You come join, Nicky, we make best NHL team,” Sasha enthused, stepping out of the elevator into the lobby.

 

Nicke felt his stomach tighten with nerves at the reminder of the NHL draft, coming up the month after the World Championship. His agent and coaches were certain that he would go in the top ten, maybe even the top five, but Nicke didn’t like to assume that anything was certain.

 

They wandered out of the hotel and towards the Daugava, Sasha talking enthusiastically about the Capitals. It was clear that, despite their last-place finish in their division, Sasha had a lot of hope for the next season. Nicke found it hard not to get excited with him.

 

They walked along the river for a bit, stopping at a promontory overlooking the city. Nicke watched the lights blinking across the water.

 

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said quietly, for Sasha had stopped talking a few moments before and was staring at the river, his shoulders tight.

 

Sasha shrugged.

 

“Compete for Russia, hard. I want – make proud, you know?”

 

Nicke thought about the amount of pressure that Sasha must feel. Even though he had Malkin on his team, Sasha unquestionably got more attention. The expectations were higher.

 

Nicke couldn’t say he understood, exactly – he didn’t think that Sweden compared to Russia, in terms of the pressure put on players – but he knew what pressure felt like.

 

Internally, he cursed his English – he didn’t know how to express what he wanted to say.

 

He glanced at Sasha. The boy looked miserable, his huge shoulders hunched in on himself.

 

Nicke reached out carefully and rested his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “It will be okay,” he said quietly. “You will do well. You have before. You will tomorrow.” He squeezed the thick muscle beneath his hand. Sasha seemed to melt a little bit, leaning into Nicke’s touch.

 

They looked at the river for a while longer before Sasha heaved a sigh.

 

“Have to sleep.”

 

Nicke nodded, although he felt a strange reluctance to leave the peaceful bubble it felt like they had created on their walk. Belatedly, he took his hand off of Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha leaned towards him, following the pressure for a moment, before shaking his head and seeming to snap out of whatever spell he had been under. And then he was bouncing again, asking Nicke questions about his season with Brynäs as they turned back to the hotel.

 

He walked Nicke all the way to the door of his room. Nicke unlocked the door and opened it quietly. The lights were off inside. He hesitated, feeling awkward for this first time on this odd outing.

 

Sasha grabbed his shoulders and kissed Nicke’s left cheek, then his right. Nicke could feel a flush rising over his cheeks. He hated being pale. There was no way Sasha would miss it. But Sasha just smiled, said “thank you, Nicky,” and walked down the hallway to his own room.

 

Nicky shut the door and let out an exhale. Okay then. Russians were affectionate. He had to be less awkward about it in the future. If it happened again. Nicke felt a distinct discomfort at the thought of it not happening again.

 

He shook his head. He needed to go bed.

 

Still, it took him a long time to fall asleep.

 

 

\--

 

 

At breakfast the next morning, Nicke sat quietly at the Team Sweden table. They didn’t have much going on that day. He hoped that a group would decide to go the Russia – Czech Republic game. They already knew that the next game would be against Canada, but they could still wind up playing Russia or the Czechs in the final.

 

Sure enough, Kronwall and Holmqvist started to talk about going to watch the game, and most of the team was in.

 

Hornqvist, who had plopped down next to Nicke with a groan a few minutes before, bumped Nicke’s shoulder.

 

“Going to watch your Russian?” He asked with a grin, chomping his bacon obnoxiously.

 

“Chew with your mouth closed,” Nicke replied, staring resolutely down at his breakfast.

 

 

\--

 

 

They headed over to Arena Riga at around one, planning to get there early. Horny and Kronwall decided to grab food, and Nicke followed, although he didn’t feel like eating. He had never been this nervous for a game that wasn’t his own. The crowd for this game was maybe double his own quarter-final match, which made sense considering the countries playing. Nicke wondered if that made Sasha more nervous. Before last night, he would have guessed that Sasha loved the added attention; now, he wasn’t sure.

 

He grabbed a few burgers – it felt like he was always hungry, these days – and made his way to their seats, towards the middle of the rink although a decent amount above the ice itself. Nicke nervously ate his hamburgers. Horny tried to talked to him, but quickly turned back to Kronwall after his first few attempts at conversation failed, Nicke too focused on his sympathy nerves to pay attention.

 

The roar when both teams came out was deafening. They were close enough to both home countries that it made sense.

 

They were only two and a half minutes into the game when Sasha scored, a slick goal that left Nicke a little breathless. He smiled as Sasha slammed into the glass, teammates piling on him in celebration.

 

“You rooting for the Russians, Nicke?”

 

Holmqvist was grinning at him. Nicke just shrugged.

 

“Nicke’s got a _friend_ on the team,” Horny added over his shoulder, drawing out the word friend until it sounded ridiculous.

 

“It’s not like that,” Nicke said, not sure what he was even denying. But Sasha and him weren’t friends. They hardly knew each other.

 

Horny just rolled his eyes while Holmqvist laughed. Fucking goalies, Nicke thought, glaring at the ice.

 

The rest of the first period was a mess of penalties as the Czechs went longer and longer without scoring. Finally, the first period was over. A couple of him teammates stood up to grab more snacks and beer, but Nicke stayed where he was.

 

Five minutes into the second period, the Czechs scored, and Nicke felt a rush of anxiety to his stomach. He held his breath as the Russians came close to scoring time and again, only to have Eremenko block the shot. The second period ended at a 1-1 tie, and Homqvist clapped his hand on Nicke’s back.

 

“Alright, Nicke, time for some more food. You look like you’re about to vomit.”

 

Several of his team members nodded in agreement. Even Horny looked sympathetic.

 

Nicke nearly sprinted to one of the convenience stands, stumbling over his words as he ordered another burger and a bottle of water. He didn’t want to miss a second of the game.

 

When he came rushing back, Horny leaned over. “You know that if the Russians win, that just means we might have to play them, right?”

 

“I know.” But right now, Sasha wanted to win, and Nicke wanted to Sasha to win. Everything else could wait.

 

The third period started, and it was clear that the energy of both teams had changed. Both were giving it everything they had, skating that much faster, passing that much cleaner.

 

The Czechs scored less than four minutes in. Nicke winced in sympathy. But the Russian team reassembled, and not even two minutes later Mozyakin buried the puck in the back of the Czech’s net. Nicke jumped in his seat and let out a wholly unprepared cheer, cutting it off abruptly as his teammates laughed.

 

But Sasha was playing frustrated, and he got two minutes for interference, sending the Czechs to a power play that gave them another goal. It was 3-2.

 

Nicke wrapped his arms around himself.

 

Mozyakin scored a minute later. 3-3. The crowd was roaring, for which team, Nicke couldn’t tell.

 

Two minutes later the Czechs scored again. Russia was down for a miserable eleven minutes, during which time Nicke was certain he had sweated entirely through the t-shirt he was wearing beneath his Team Sweden jacket. Finally, with a minute left on the clock, Mikhnov scored, with an assist from Sasha. Nicke let the air he had been holding whoosh out of his lungs as he watched Sasha pile on his teammates.

 

The game went into overtime. Nicke was jiggling his leg so much Horny punched him in the arm.

 

And then the Czechs scored, and Russia didn’t.

 

The game ended 5-4, to the Czechs.

 

 

\--

 

 

Nicke stretched out on his bed, already in his pajamas. Horny had some Latvian soap opera on, more for the distraction than anything else. Nicke let the sound wash over him. He needed to be thinking about the game against Canada, against Crosby and Bergeron and Seabrook, but he couldn’t stop seeing Sasha’s face, after over time had ended and the Czechs were celebrating. Sasha had looked heartbroken.

 

Nicke jerked up from his bed, so suddenly that Horny looked at him in alarm.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Nicke was almost out the door before he answered. “Just for a snack.” It was still thirty minutes til curfew, and Nicke was pretty certain that the Russians were just two floors above them. He had time.

 

Nicke glanced at the elevator, but took the stairs – they would be faster. It wasn’t until he had reached the sixth floor that he realized the Russians might have left already. Nicky felt the bottom plummet out of his stomach as he walked out into the hallway and realized he had no idea which door to knock on.

 

What if he didn’t see Sasha for years? Even if Nicke came to the NHL, they would only play each other a couple of times a season at most. Nicke felt silly for how much he had been thinking about Sasha. They were never going to be able to be friends. It just wasn’t practical.

 

Evgeni Malkin and Sidney Crosby found him like that, standing in the hallway, staring aimlessly at the carpet.

 

“Are you okay?” Nicke looked up and into Crosby’s concerned gaze. Malkin, his hangdog expression more sorrowful that Nicke had ever seen, wrapped his arm around Crosby’s shoulders and whispered in his ear.

 

“Are you looking for Ovech – Sasha?” asked Crosby. Nicke looked at him sharply. Crosby didn’t look like he was mocking him, his gaze open and clear while Malkin kept a protective arm over his shoulders.

 

“Yes – do you know which room?” Nicke asked.

 

“641,” Malkin responded, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “With me, but we go for little bit.” He continued walking down the hallway, almost dragging Crosby with him.

 

“Backstrom?” Nicke turned.

 

Crosby smiled at him. “See you tomorrow.”

 

Nicke nodded and walked down the hallway until he reached the door marked 641. He knocked.

 

No one responded.

 

Nicke knocked again.

 

From inside came a burst of angry-sounding Russian.

 

“Um, Sasha? It’s Nicke,” Nicke called softly, in English.

 

There was another silent moment, and then the door swung open.

 

Sasha was shirtless, wearing his Team Russia trackpants. His face was stained with tears.

 

Nicke didn’t know what else to do. He stepped forward, and when Sasha didn’t move, Nicke wrapped his arms around him.

 

Sasha leaned his forehead on Nicke’s shoulder, and Nicke held him tightly. He didn’t know how many minutes passed like that, Sasha crying softly into Nicke’s shoulder, Nicke holding him tightly. Finally, Sasha leaned back – not far enough to shake Nicke’s arms from his shoulders, but enough so that they could make eye contact.

 

Sasha grimaced through his tears and wiped his eyes roughly with the backs of his hands.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Some of Sasha’s fringe was plastered to his forehead. Nicke reached out and brushed it back, carding through the soft strands with his fingers.

 

Sasha tensed, and Nicke jerked his hand back, horrified with himself. He tried to stumble back, out of their loose embrace, but Sasha held on to him with an iron grip.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

Nicke glanced at the television. Sasha or Malkin had brought a Play Station, which rested in a tangle of cords and controllers at the base of the television.

 

“Video games?” Nicke asked, gesturing to it.

 

“Okay.”

 

They played Call of Duty in silence for a little while, until Nicke was seriously pushing his luck on missing curfew.

 

Sasha pressed angrily on his controller, and Nicke’s character died, again. Nicke stretched his arms and stood up.

 

“I have to go.”

 

Sasha nodded, glaring at the paused game.

 

“Listen, Sasha – you played well. You set the tone for your team. It was just one of those games.”

 

Nicke knew Sasha would know what he meant – those games that went back and forth, back and forth, ended inevitably in overtime or shootouts in favor of whichever team scored last.

 

Sasha heaved a sigh. “I know. But is hard.”

 

“I know.” Nicke walked towards the door. Sasha stood and walked over to him, throwing his arms around Nicke again.

 

“Come to NHL,” he whispered fiercely in Nicke’s ear. “Come play for Capitals. With me. We win, together.”

 

There were thirty teams in the NHL and at least two players who were definitely going to go before Nicky in the draft. He had no business making promises about where he would go in the U.S.

 

Still, Nicke found himself whispering into Sasha’s messy hair with an equal fierceness.

 

“I will. I’ll come to Washington.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The game against Canada was a blur. It wasn’t his best game, but still Nicke was proud of his play. He had been steady, and that was what counted.

 

When the final buzzer sounded, he raced off the bench into the pile of his teammates, grinning and laughing as Samuelsson patted him on the helmet and Horny hurled himself onto Nicke’s back. Nicke was nineteen, and he was going to the gold metal game of the World Championships.

 

 

\--

 

 

The locker room was quiet.

 

Nicke resolutely tied his skates.

 

Coach Gustaffson stepped forward.

 

“The Czechs are good,” he said gruffly.

 

“But if we play the way I know we can, we will win.”

 

The locker roomed filled with cheers. For the first time in the tournament, Nicke felt ready.

 

Mattson and Emval scored in the first period less than a minute apart. The cheers from the Swedish crowd were deafening.

 

In the second period, when Kronwall scored their third goal and the Czechs had none, Nicke realized that they might not just win this game. They might dominate.

 

The Czechs were shaken. They didn’t recover.

 

The game ended 4-0. Sweden had won the gold.

 

Nicke would never forget the feeling of the heavy medal being draped around his neck, taking a victory lap around Arena Riga with his teammates; champagne bottles popping in the locker room; the steakhouse where they started the evening and the crowded and smoky bars they moved towards to celebrate. This feeling, right here, was why he wanted to play hockey until he physically couldn’t anymore.

 

It was only later in the evening, after he’d matched Horny shot for shot until his face flushed and he’d started to stumble, that Nicke acknowledged how much he wished Sasha was there with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> All tournament information is factual. All interaction between hockeys is imagined. Featuring gratuitous involvement of Patric Hornqvist because I love the Pens too. 
> 
> This will most likely be about ten chapters - rating will go up later on. 
> 
> Inspired by thehoyden and twentysomething's And Never Been Kissed, to which I dedicate the presence of an Ethernet cord in this chapter :)


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